Alarmed by the implications of what she’d just read, Miss Prim hurriedly searched through the earlier journals. She found one dated 1 June 1985—14 November 1986 and scurried through the pages. The entry marked 5 February 1986 was written in a more emotional hand than was her father’s wont.
I have just returned from visiting O. in the maternity ward. She is as beautiful a mother as she is a woman. And the baby—my baby—is as beautiful as my Celia and my Felicity! And yet, with Noel’s strong chin and clear eyes. Since O. told me of her delicate situation, a secret part of me had hoped for a boy. No one could ever take Noel’s place in my heart, but to have a strong boy—it had been my fondest wish. But now! To see this angel in O.’s arms is to know that she is as perfect as anyone could have wished. We discussed the name, and O. likes Providence, feeling as she does, as we both do, that the child is a gift, and one whom we shall acknowledge as ours as soon as we determine the correct course of action.
No more entries until February 14, Valentine’s Day.
O. is not doing well, post-partum. While the child is healthy and happy, the Mother has contracted a virus that is causing high fevers and delirium. Doctors reassure me but I worry. O. has lost too much weight since the birth of Providence, and she is slow to respond to treatment. I hold the baby as much as I can, to provide her the warmth and care that an infant needs, and to show her my love … I must give her the love of two parents, because one is too ill to do so. More later.
Then a devastating entry from February 20:
O. has not survived. I am overcome with grief. The hospital staff have asked A. to make the funeral plans and burial arrangements. I must be the one to care for P., not an aunt, though of course A. will always be welcome in our home. I am old, but not elderly, and I shall hire help.
Miss Prim closed her eyes. A baby sister, of whose identity she had been completely ignorant these last twenty-five years! How could Papa have kept this information from her and Celia? Charity Prim had died, too young, more than ten years before Providence’s birth, so Papa need not have hidden his love for another woman; of course Felicity and Celia would have embraced a stepmother who loved their father. The Prims had always been close, mutually supportive, loving. Why would Cornelius have hidden Providence’s existence from his family? Did he see his daughters as closed-minded, selfish, unfeeling?
Bruno at her side, Miss Prim rushed to the main floor, picked up the telephone receiver, and dialed a 212 number. Celia answered on the first ring.
“Hello, Sister,” Miss Prim said, her voice shaking a little. “I have quite a lot to tell you. You must come to Connecticut as soon as possible. No, it cannot wait. Tomorrow, shall we say? … Yes, I shall pick you up at the train station. I am looking at the schedule now. A noon departure gets you to Greenfield at 4:04 pm. Until then, dearest.”
13
A Locked-Room Mystery!
Miss Prim had stayed awake much later than her usual bedtime, and arisen much earlier the next morning, to prepare Rose Cottage for her first set of invited guests. Of course, the police and Lorraine Koslowski had been welcome, but they had not exactly been invited. When guests drop by unexpectedly, they expect to find an item out of place here and there, a dish or two in the sink, a blanket thrown over the couch cushions: in short, all the indicators that a house is lived in and loved. But invited guests require a higher standard. Miss Prim had quite taken to Kit and wanted him to feel comfortable and welcome, and she thought the proper atmosphere (including the smell of baking cinnamon rolls, known for their ability to win friends and influence people) might encourage the somewhat shy Faye to confide in her. As for Celia, Miss Prim loved and adored her sister, but Celia was the older, and Felicity the younger; and, try as she might, Miss Prim had never quite succeeded in quashing her need for her sister’s approval.
Even Bruno seemed aware that visitors were expected. He paced around the cottage happily and expectantly, his tail wagging in anticipation. Not that it took much to get that little stub shaking like a seismometer: a smile, a word, any attention paid whatsoever. Who ever would have let such an animal out for adoption? Miss Prim asked herself. But she counted her blessings. Their loss is my wonderful gain.
As she mixed the cinnamon roll batter, she noticed Bruno off to her side, sitting on his haunches, watching her pathetically, knowing better than to beg for whatever it was that smelled so succulent. But the drool! Here was an opportunity to make use of Pavlov’s conditioning techniques. She did not want to reinforce negative behavior, so she distracted Bruno by tossing his ball a few times and then engaging in a spirited tug of war with him for his chew toy. Among the exertions, he stopped drooling. Miss Prim grabbed the hand bell she’d purchased at Prothero’s and rang it twice. Bruno’s ears pricked up, and for some reason he sat. Now was the time for the proper reinforcement. She reached into her pocket and offered him one of the Milk Bones she’d purchased at the market. Bruno took it like a gentleman, swallowed it in one gulp, and sat again, hoping to coax another treat from her pocket. Miss Prim knew better than to be such a soft touch, so she patted his head and returned to the kitchen to continue working on the buns. When Bruno began drooling again, she repeated her training method. Her second attempt was as successful as her first.
The completed buns had been sitting just long enough for the icing to melt perfectly when the doorbell rang. Bruno barked once to make the visitors aware of his presence, but he piped down quickly. Could he know who was waiting on the other side of the door? He seemed quite intuitive that way, Miss Prim thought.
Wiping her hands on a towel and removing her apron, she strode to the front door and asked “Who is there, please?” After all, a murderer was running loose in Greenfield, and while it was not likely that he would be so audacious as to attack her in broad daylight, it was possible that he resented her interference. And that resentment could lead to …
“It’s us, Miss Prim,” Kit Cotillard said. “Kit and Faye.”
Miss Prim unlocked the door and welcomed her guests.
“Hey, Miss Prim,” Kit said, as Bruno bounded up to him. “Bruno! Hey boy! I brought you a bone! Miss Prim, is it OK if I give him a bone?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Kit. Bones can be bad for dogs.”
“This one should be OK. I went to the butcher and specifically asked for a bone that a dog could play with. He gave me this one”—he lifted a brown paper sack that he carried in his right hand—“and he said it won’t splinter up and it’ll last a long time.”
“Kit, that was exceedingly thoughtful of you. Do you want to play with Bruno in the backyard for ten minutes while I brew the tea, and then while we’re having refreshments, Bruno can enjoy his bone? Outdoors, of course.”
“Sounds good, Miss Prim. Come on, Bruno!” Bruno, so well behaved around and protective of Miss Prim, saw the opportunity to partake in some much-needed roughhousing with a fellow male who would enjoy it just as much, and he took off like a shot after Kit, jumping on him and nearly knocking him over. Boys are boys regardless of species, Miss Prim reflected.
“Your brother is a sweet boy,” Miss Prim said to Faye as a way of breaking the ice. She knew from experience that a compliment about one’s siblings is like a compliment to oneself. Her own brother, Noel, had sometimes driven her to distraction during his adolescent years, but he’d become a fine man before dying much too young.
Faye was skeptical. “Well, maybe. But rough around the edges, to say the least.”
“But they all are, dear, at that age. Too much testosterone, and they don’t know what to do with it. It’s a biological thing. I worked in a doctor’s office for many years, so I know about these matters. As women, we must love them while also maintaining a somewhat gruff exterior with them, lest they take advantage of us. For they know how to do that, don’t they? The same way they know how to manipulate their mothers, they know how to manipulate their sisters. I am convinced it is an ability they developed as a survival skill during evolution.”
Faye took a seat on the couch while Miss Prim settled into one of the overstuffed chairs.
“Your house is cute, Miss Prim. It would work for a film set in an English village in Suffolk. Or Norfolk.”
This was the highest of compliments for Miss Prim, and she acknowledged it with great satisfaction.
“Do you enjoy films, Faye? I admit, I do not see as many of them as I would like to. I used to live in New York City, not far from a cinema, and I always had such good intentions of going to see the latest inscrutable French films. But free time was so rare, and by the time I finally made it to theatre, the films were usually gone. I understand there are new technologies that will allow me to rent films to watch here on my telly, and I may look into that possibility once I’m settled in.”
Faye perked up. “I’d love to give you some recommendations, Miss Prim. I see a lot of films, and I keep a list of them in my journal.” She patted the backpack she carried with her—the younger generation’s answer to the purse or handbag, and not a style that Miss Prim really approved of, but to each her own. Faye added, confidentially, “I keep my ideas for films I want to write in my journal, too.”
“Oh, so you are an aspiring filmmaker, Faye? How exciting! What talent it must take to put a film together. I imagine that everyone, from the actors to the makeup people to the costumers, must be quite wonderful. So much creativity in one place. What a rewarding way to make your mark on the world!”
Faye blossomed like a rose. This had always been Miss Prim’s gift: She spoke with such sincerity, and with such unabashed enthusiasm for others’ dreams and plans, that most people, from family members to complete strangers, were instantly drawn to her. Her father had often remarked on this quality, with a sort of awed affection; meanwhile, her mother had worried a bit about her daughter’s propensity toward naïveté.
“Are your parents in the creative industry?” Miss Prim asked. “I would venture to guess they are not. Are they perhaps accountants, or something dreadfully uncreative? Often, I have found, children seek to differentiate themselves from their parents by going a completely different route. It’s just human nature. My father was a businessman and spent all day behind a desk. I wanted to work with people, to help them in some way, which is how I ended up working in a doctor’s office. My mother was very active in women’s rights and was forever going to meetings or organizing rallies. But that life was too public for me. I wanted something on a smaller scale, working with individuals. We are fortunate that the world is large enough to need both types of people.”
“Our parents are gone, Miss Prim. They were international journalists, covering wars and things. Our aunt took care of us while they traveled, which was most of the time. But they died about fifteen years ago, just after Kit was born. Terrorists bombed the hotel they were staying in. I can hardly remember them now.”
“Dear, I am so sorry to hear that. But your aunt is lucky to have you.”
“Actually, I think she was happy to see us go.”
“You don’t live with her?”
“God no. She’s up in New Hampshire. When I turned 21, I got my inheritance, which included the house in Greenfield, so we packed up and here we are.”
“You and Kit live on your own?”
“Yes, we’ve been here about a year. I know, everyone says how young I am to have my own house and to take care of Kit. But it works and we’re pretty happy here. Our parents made some really good investments, so money isn’t a problem for us.”
“So your parents used Greenfield as a sort of home base between their travels?”
“You could say that. They bought the house when they first got married, long before they had us, but they were rarely here. When they died, the house went to me and Kit. Aunt Victoria rented it out until we were old enough, and then we moved in.”
Miss Prim was thoroughly impressed. What strength of character it took for Faye Cotillard, at the tender age of 21, to move to another state, set up a home, and care for her teenaged brother.
The teakettle began to whistle.
“Faye, would you fetch Kit? The tea will be ready in just a couple of minutes.”
Faye retrieved Kit while Miss Prim dished out the cinnamon rolls.
“I think Bruno likes his bone, Miss Prim,” Kit said, tucking into the cinnamon roll with gusto, ignoring the knife and fork and using his fingers instead. Miss Prim and Faye exchanged a knowing and indulgent glance.
“While you’re here, Faye,” Miss Prim said, “I wonder if you would mind taking a look at another photo. Do you remember yesterday, you said the man in the photo might look like someone, if he didn’t have all that facial hair? Well, the police have used some technology to create a simulacrum of what he might look like if he were clean-shaven.” She handed the photo to Faye, and Kit got up from his chair to stand behind Faye so he could examine it too.
“Does the face ring any bells?” Miss Prim asked, hopefully.
Faye bit her lip. “I don’t know, Miss Prim. I feel like I did yesterday, like I’ve seen him before. But I still can’t place him. I mean, it could have been here, or it could have been back in New Hampshire. Maybe just someone I saw in a store or something. I have this thing for faces because I’m always looking at people and trying to figure out what kind of role they’d play in a film. There’s something nice about his face. It’s strong; I like that. Not super-handsome in a leading-man kind of way, but a good supporting actor who might upstage the star and walk off with the Oscar. Or at least, that’s probably what would have flashed through my mind the first time I saw him. But I think that about a lot of guys.”
“What about you, Kit?” Miss Prim asked. “Do you recognize him?”
“Not really,” Kit replied. “He just looks like a guy.”
“If for any reason either of you has an epiphany, would you let me know? It could greatly help the police with their inquiries.”
“Sure, Miss Prim,” Faye said, continuing to squint at the photo, while Kit’s eyes seemed to silently ask the question What’s an epiphany?
Miss Prim retrieved her handbag, removed a $10 bill from her wallet, and tried to give it to Kit.
“What’s this for?” Kit asked.
“For exercising Bruno, of course. All young men should have jobs, and I’d like ‘exerciser of Bruno’ to be yours. I’m hoping you’ll come perhaps two or three times a week to frolic with Bruno a bit. I can pay you each time, or weekly if you prefer.”
Kit refused to take the proffered cash. “No, Miss Prim. We don’t need the money. Me and Faye have plenty of it. I’ll do it for free. And maybe for some good food once in a while. Faye cooks gross things. I bet you cook good things, though.”
“I believe I do, Kit, though perhaps you will be the better judge of that. So, I believe we have a deal, as long as the arrangement meets with Faye’s approval.” Faye shrugged her shoulders, as if to say “Whatever.”
“Next time you visit,” Miss Prim continued, “kindly bring a list of your favorite meals, and I shall see what I can whip up. I must warn you, though, that I will balk at preparing anything too unhealthy or too fat- or cholesterol-laden. Ingesting such meals habitually is simply deadly.”
“I accept your conditions, Miss Prim,” Kit negotiated, “but you have to agree that the food has to taste good. Otherwise I can just eat what Faye cooks.”
“The right spices work wonders, Kit,” Miss Prim said. She was about to expound on the merits of oregano and coriander when the doorbell rang. From the rear yard, she heard Bruno woofing halfheartedly, too involved with his bone to pay much attention.
Miss Prim opened the door to find Detective Dawes standing on her doorstep. “Detective!” she exclaimed. “Do come in. Cinnamon roll for you?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“Hi, Detective Dawes,” Faye and Kit said simultaneously. Kit added, “Did you figure out who the dead guy is?”
“Not yet, Kit.”
As Faye and Kit gathered their belongi
ngs to take their leave, Faye said to Miss Prim, “I heard about what happened at Prothero’s. Miss Lavelle’s a woman of moods, if you know what I mean. Her bark is worse than her bite. Don’t worry, she’ll come around.”
“Granted, it might take twenty years,” Dawes acknowledged, “but she’ll come around. Perhaps.”
“So, what brings you to Rose Cottage, Detective?” Miss Prim asked, as Dawes settled his appealing bulk into her rather small chair. Why, oh why, did she keep noticing his form? And why was she permitting herself to notice it when she had the loveliest of men, Doctor Poe, waiting for her to accept his proposal?
And, speaking of Doctor Poe, why hadn’t she called him since her arrival in Greenfield? Today was only her fourth day of residence, and she’d been quite busy, given the discovery of the body and other events; besides, the rules of modern romance permitted each partner a good deal of independence. Still, she was beginning to feel a bit guilty, and she resolved to call the doctor before day’s end.
“Well, Miss Prim, I know you like mysteries, so I have a new one for you. The lab techs got done analyzing all the SOC—that stands for ‘scene of crime,’ but you probably know that—photos. The stairs leading to your basement were very dusty, I’m supposing from years of not being used. We were able to identify eight sets of footprints going up and down that staircase: yours, mine, Reed’s, Fremlin’s, Bruno’s, and the three SOC guys. But there was a ninth set of footprints, too. They went up the stairs but not down the stairs.”
The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim Page 8